


Sing

by nhpw



Series: When In Rome [1]
Category: Supernatural RPF
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Background Poly, Bottom Jensen, Drunk Sex, Happy Sex, Jus in Bello Convention, M/M, Oral Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Roma | Rome, Teasing, Top Misha
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-23
Updated: 2016-05-23
Packaged: 2018-06-10 06:32:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,801
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6943663
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nhpw/pseuds/nhpw
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Through the rest of the year, they spouse-swap and Facetime sex with their wives and abide by a polyamorous structure that thrives on communication across a foursome. But Rome is a different story. Rome is theirs.</p>
<p>(Shameless Cockles PWP, set after the Jensen/Misha panel on Sunday. Teasing references actual events that happened during said panel.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sing

**Author's Note:**

> Completely shameless, completely sex, completely unbeta'd. 
> 
> This is intended to be part of a series of sexy, smutty ficlets, unconnected in any way except that they all take place at JIB. Because it's JIB.
> 
> JIB!
> 
> I'll add more to the series over the next couple of days, but each ficlet is complete on its own and can bed read independently.
> 
> Enjoy!

Their general state can only be described as “love-drunk” as they tumble into the shared hotel suite and Misha closes the door - a sloppy push with his right shoulder, and then he reaches across his trapped right arm with his free left hand to deadbolt the door. It takes him three tries to get his shaky fingers to coordinate enough to latch the chain, but once it slides into place, he spins around and presses his back and palms flat against the closed door and turns twinkly eyes and a toothy grin on the other man in the room.

“Cas is a bottom, huh?”

Misha just laughs - full out, head tilted back so the sound comes out at the ceiling tiles and his mouth is wide and his eyes are crinkled to full crow’s feet and he feels ten kinds of tickled in his gut and his toes and… well, in his groin, to be honest. So he levels his head and sobers his laughter. He’s not entirely sure what kind of look he’s giving Jensen, but a quick downward glance says it doesn’t matter. He’s on board. So he raises an eyebrow, receives one in return, and takes that as his cue. He rushes Jensen, and the force of his body weight hurls them back onto the bed, Jensen stretched out on his back with Misha towering above him, and they hold a mischievous gaze for a drawn-out pause before Misha devours Jensen’s mouth hungrily.

“Misha’s not,” he manages to growl out between deep swaths of his tongue into Jensen’s mouth. He’s still bracing himself above Jensen with straight arms, but he collapses easily when he’s pulled down by powerful forearms and crushed against a familiar chest. Still he owns the kiss, and Jensen doesn’t try to overpower him.

He does, however, pull back to offer a thoughtful frown and a quip. “Technically, Misha’s a switch. I mean, I’ve been in your ass--”

Misha swallows whatever else Jensen might have been going to say because frankly, he’s not in the mood for a discussion. Whatever he is, whatever “label” he’s “supposed” to have, he’s wearing his Top hat now, boy howdy, and he’s going to fuck this man beneath him even if he has to tie him up to do it.

Who is he kidding? His fingers aren’t coordinated enough right now to tie any ropes.

He doesn’t have to. One roll of his hips and Jensen’s hissing and moaning like he hasn’t been fucked in a week which-- OK, to be fair, Misha’s not sure he has.

They hadn’t had time last night, and the two weeks between England and Italy had probably been a shitstorm of family time and jet lag and not quite remembering his name. Misha, having stayed in Europe between Germany and Italy, was well-adjusted to the time difference by now, but he’d given in at the first sign of Jensen’s exhaustion and taken him into welcoming arms in bed, holding him close until morning without a single wandering touch.

Tonight is a different story.

He grinds down, and feels Jensen buck back and moan and soon, he’s a complete mess. He definitely, absolutely for sure, doesn’t need to be wearing pants.

Misha yanks them off with all of the finesse of a drunk college student, followed by his own, and then their shirts.

He tilts his head, then nods at himself. To be totally fair? This is sort of that.  _ When in Rome _ . It’s a mantra four years old; a mantra borne of desire and passion and a time that’s theirs and only theirs. Through the rest of the year, they spouse-swap and Facetime sex with their wives and abide by a polyamorous structure that thrives on communication across a foursome. But Rome is a different story. Rome is  _ theirs _ . It’s their own Mardi Gras of happy, drunken gay sex; of late nights and forgetting to shower and whispering conspiratorially in plain view and earshot of the fans. Rome resets a clock every year, like an anniversary trip - a renewal, a revival, a shakeout of the sillies that sates the two men and somehow manages to bring all four of them back to center, even though Vicki and Danneel mostly get the details long after the afterglow has faded.

It’s that, now. It’s just Jensen and Misha and the unyielding grind of two naked erections frotting against each other, slicking toned bellies with precome. It’s heavy breathing and unabashed moans filling the space in place of words. It’s little nips and licks on Jensen’s chin and down to his neck. It’s one hard suck to the shoulder blade that’s bound to leave a mark, followed by another, and another. 

“Mish…”

“You made me sing,” he growls back, biting again with purpose, this time on the other side. “J, you made me improvi-sing.”

“‘Improvi-sing’?” Jensen’s laughing and squirming beneath him, and Misha absolutely won’t abide by that. He latches his mouth to Jensen’s right shoulder and sucks hard, teeth more than scraping and causing Jensen’s laughter to disappear into a sea of agonized moans.

“Your turn now.” His voice is dangerously low, eyes a couple of fiery daggers as he brings up two fingers to Jensen’s lips and raises his right eyebrow.

The fingers are accepted without argument, and Jensen licks and sucks in delicious agony as Misha continues to rut against him without mercy.

Split-lubed fingers are drawn out of the cavern with a lewd  _ pop _ and a string of spit that connects them to Jensen’s bottom lip. Misha admires his lover’s wrecked state for a quick second before getting down to business. He sits back on strong haunches between Jensen’s spread bowlegs, appreciating the way they naturally fall in opposition to one another. He reaches one hand down and strokes both of their erections together to further gather natural lubrication and then, when Jensen’s whimpering and begging in a way that’s to his liking, Misha circles his lover’s entrance with one teasing finger to draw out the aria he’s looking for. “Sing, Ackles. Just for me. Private show.”

Jensen’s song of desperation is a melody that falls easily on Misha’s ears, increasing in depth and volume as he breaches the entrance in a smooth slide of one finger, then two. He thrusts deep and scissors in a familiar dance, the dance where Jensen’s a fucked-out mess before Misha even gets to the good part.

Then he draws out his fingers and slicks up his cock, sheathing himself inside his lover with a slow, steady slide. He knows he hasn’t stretched Jensen quite to the width of his dick, but Jensen likes the burn, likes to feel the final give of his body like this. And Misha would be lying if he said he doesn’t like it just as much.

He pushes in, feeling Jensen’s body melt and give each half-inch at a time. It’s hot and tight around him in a way the women never are - a clench here, a tinge of resistance there, until he’s fully seated inside and positively grinning down at Jensen’s rolled-back eyes. “Not bad, but I think you can do better.”

Jensen pouts up and whines out, “I gave you  _ all the compliments _ , Mish, and you think I can  _ do better _ ? I’m hurt.”

Misha pulls his hips back and slams back into Jensen in response, and maybe it’s a bit harsh, but he gets what he wants: A sharp, beautiful cry of desire. “See? You’re improving already.” He recoils and slams in again once, twice, three times, then stops to steal a kiss and offer a breathless chuckle. “How are you doing?”

Jensen bucks his hips in response, trying to get Misha moving again. “You talk too much.”

“Ah. One of my many… many… faults.”

“You have no faults.”

The thrusting begins again, this time more steady, more gentle, but with purpose as he reaches between them to grasp Jensen’s erection in a sure hand. There’s another breathless laugh that harmonizes beautifully against Jensen’s pleasured moans as Misha finds his prostate and aims just to brush it, not to hit it square on. He knows this man, this body. He knows what’s pleasurable and what’s too much; he knows Jensen’s beautiful moans turn to sharp yelps of not-quite-pleasure when his prostate is jarred. This isn’t the first time. It’s not even the second time. This is a song they improvised in Rome years ago, that they’ve now sung so often they know it by heart. This is a song they’ve molded to perfection across the years; one that sometimes has more voices, but tonight, it’s where it began: two tenors chasing a climax in harmony.

And it’s a  _ perfect, beautiful _ harmony.

Granted, it’s a little disjointed because they’ve had too much alcohol. Granted, it’s a little short on the draw because Misha has been missing it for so long, he can’t hold back the orgasm when it threatens. But it ends with Misha softening inside Jensen as he bends forward to take his partner in his mouth, to the back of his throat, and works his swallows and hums so that Jensen’s bucking up to meet him and then he’s over and gone, both of them diminishing into a puddle of afterglow on top of hotel sheets, in each other’s arms.

It’s just heavy breathing and gentle presses of kisses for an encore, and they’re quiet for a long time. Misha props up and starts to study the marks he left. They’re blooming beautifully, and will thankfully hide beneath collared shirts just fine, he thinks, kissing one at random and smiling at Jensen’s sharp intake of breath. That’s when the first words are spoken.

“Well,” Jensen says, rolling on his side and propping up on his right fist, “You do have  _ one _ fault.”

“Hmmm?”

“You can’t sing.”

Misha meets his eyes and wiggles his eyebrows playfully. “True. But I can conduct.”

Jensen’s just gone then, well and truly, doubled over with laughter in the center of their king-sized bed. Misha’s mesmerized by the sight and sound of that. Of this. Of his love, right here, so incredibly happy and relaxed.

It’s some indeterminate number of minutes before Jensen sobers entirely, but his eyes are still dancing when he looks at Misha again and reaches out a hand to stroke along Misha’s arm. “Hey,” he says, his smile wide and infectious.

“Hey yourself.”

“You make me happy.”

“Likewise.” Their lips meet with the same giggly drunkenness but none of the urgency that had existed when they first tumbled through the door, and they kiss tenderly, openly. It’s comfortable and familiar - something they do often, behind closed doors. But this feeling, this feeling of Rome, of the place where it all began…

Here, it’s not just music.

Here, it’s magic.


End file.
